


With Great Fury and Pleasure

by meiwai



Series: OFF kinkmeme fills [2]
Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Batter's POV, Gen, Internal Conflict, Loss of Control, OFF Spoilers, POV Second Person, Spoilers, self-hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiwai/pseuds/meiwai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the OFF kinkmeme prompt, </p>
<p>"Aaah, I don't need anything too porn-a-licious but I would love some good, old-fashioned self-loathing with the Batter about his monstrous side. BadBatter, ghost batter, whatever--you can take this in any direction, you can even totally nix the NSFW if you like. But extra bonus points if he's interacting with another character and has to, like, hold back his murderous urges (or...not <3). Or urges of another sort.</p>
<p>Man, just so long a someone suffers hard physically or mentally, it's allll good. I will love you if you do this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Great Fury and Pleasure

You're walking down a dimly-lit, narrow corridor of the smoke mines when it first hits you. There's an Elsen shivering in a corner, his twitchy little hands fumbling at the edges of his sleeves. When you catch his eye momentarily, he inhales with that infuriating HhhHHh sound you've grown to despise. 

You want to shut him up with fear, raise your voice with violence. Uncontrollably, your grip tenses and clenches around the bat in your right hand. The calluses on your palm sting with a dull ache. You can feel the beginnings of a migraine. 

No, you don't want to talk to him. 

"I'm... I'm working... I'm being productive..."

Shut up, you think. 

You wonder if you could break free and gouge his eyes from his sockets. You wonder if he'd scream. You'd bash his skull in, strike after strike after strike. You wonder if the screaming would last through the bludgeoning. For how long. At what pitch. 

The urge grows stronger. You begin breathing through clenched teeth. Your collar feels tight. You want to see blood and tears and the faces of the unworthy begging for your mercy.

The restraint of the arrow keys weighs on you and you force a step forward in accordance with your puppeteer's direction, muscles tense with the desire to be used animalistically, without limits. Your form and your guise fight for dominance and the struggle churns your stomach, makes your heart race. You need something. You need it now. 

The Elsen's pale flesh was so-

Two steps more and yes, yes, your vision swims as three severed, gruesome heads enter your field of vision. You grin, unseen by anyone. You bear your fangs. You see red. 

The battle is set to auto. 

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes

You bring the bat down upon the Magnolia, yes, yes, with great fury and pleasure, yes, and the crunch, yes, yes, yes, it's in time to the sweet swing music ringing in your ears, your favorite, yes

You swing madly, without aiming, just wanting to pull your shoulders from their sockets and keep going yes three become two and and two become one and all become nothing and flesh becomes pulp and water turns to wine yes yes yes

It feels like a orgasmic eternity and a damned millisecond and before you know it you're reaching down to pick up the dropped luck tickets of your recently-exorcised foes and there is an emptiness spreading from your core to the tips of your fingers and toes. 

The drunkenness is past and the hangover begins. 

You pocket the tickets and your gaze is unfixed. You're afraid to look down at your hands. Afraid that what you see will be the sharp claws of a monster instead of the blunt nails of the man you wish you were. 

When you look over your shoulder you see the Elsen, still there, still trying to huddle into himself, and there is no more bloodlust. He will never know how close he came to death by the unforgiving wood of your bat. You will live with the knowledge for the rest of your shameful existence. There is no more bloodlust. There is only the dull pounding of your heartbeat in your headache and the bitter taste of your pathetic life in your mouth. 

You loathe everyone and everything and yourself most of all.


End file.
